WARNING: My Tristan has some serious issues, but this shouldn't come as a surprise to anyone who has seen—really closely seen and contemplated—Mads Mikkelsen's brilliant and understated portrayal of Tristan in the movie.

Also, some of the words I use in the story might be a little jarring (e.g. the use of "whore" instead of "prostitute"), but please bear in mind that I am telling the story from Tristan's point of view from this chapter on. Please read and review!

Tristan's Choice

Chapter One:

467 A.D. (late fall, a few months before the events in the movie), the Roman fort of Camboglanna

He had no intentions of going into the tavern. Tristan, famed Knight of the Round Table, preferred his own company, or that of his horse and hawk, to that of the raucous crowd that gathered every night to drink and carouse. That crowd included his comrades-in-arms—men who had fought with him and might one day die for him, men with whom he had shared a past in a distant land long ago. They were not his friends—Tristan had no real friends, nor did he particularly want any—but they were the closest things to friends he had ever had. And they would insist that he join them for a round of ale if they saw him walking past the outdoor tavern on his way home from the stables.

So he resolved not to be seen. His was a rare ability—and a necessary one for a successful scout. Tristan could blend into his surroundings so perfectly, stalk so silently, that he sneaked in and out of enemy camps almost at will. He avoided the lookouts without effort and counted the enemy's numbers one by one, took stock of their arms and supplies, and often strolled among them while they slept, idly wondering at their dreams—wondering too if he should put an abrupt end to any of them. He could slit a man's throat without his victim ever realizing what had happened. Tall and lean and lithe, Tristan moved with the easy grace of a predator and looked upon the rest of the world as potential prey.

Not that he was a cruel man, he reflected, as he walked along the deserted street, though many would consider him so, and some might even call him sadistic because he was so good at what he did...

He was almost past the tavern when the sweet sound of Vanora's singing drifted to his ears and interrupted his thoughts. He paused in the shadows and tilted his head to listen, briefly eyeing the bright, beckoning lanterns and the half-drunk crowd with indifference before lowering his gaze.

He lingered in the shadows after the song was done, his eyes again turning inward to continue his rare moment of introspection. Tristan was a man of few words, and even fewer deep thoughts. He did not like to examine himself too closely; he simply accepted what he was. And yet…and yet…

Yes, he killed, and killed without compunction. And, yes, he enjoyed it, as Galahad liked to point out every time the younger knight vented his anger and disgust over the life they were forced to lead in defense of Roman interests. Tristan took the personal criticism in stride; it was simply the truth. But even though he enjoyed killing, he never went out of his way to make anyone's death particularly painful, or prolonged. He had perfected killing, elevated it to an art form—a dance, if you will. His sword thrusts and bow shots were clean and elegant—one might say even merciful, for they seldom missed their mark. Death came quickly to his opponents. After all, what honor was there in shooting a man full of arrows, if one clean shot through the heart or eye could do the job? What honor was there in hacking away at his prey like Bors or Gawain till there was little left to resemble a man? No, he was not cruel or sadistic. He was a precise, efficient killer. He did not waste…

An unexpected movement from across the street—a bright splash of red beneath the tavern's entrance arch—caught his hawk-like eyes, and brought him out of his reverie. For an instant he thought it might be Arthur in his red cloak—Arthur who frequented the tavern even less than he did—and the scout straightened with interest. But it was not Arthur.

It was the new girl, come to empty a cistern into the street drain.

Tristan had never seen her before—and having seen her just now would not have given the girl a second thought—but Gawain had mentioned her to him the other day during a sparring match and what he said was mildly intriguing.

"She is the only person I know who is less friendly than you," Gawain had told him. "Silent. A real cold fish—until you get her into bed, that is."

Lancelot had the reputation of being a ladies' man—and had a long string of lovers to prove it. But it was Gawain who tried out all the new girls first. Gawain saved his coin for the whores; Lancelot squandered his on gambling and got his bedding for free—eventually.

Tristan now studied the girl as she turned and headed back into the tavern. She did not look like a whore—Gawain had said as much—nor did she walk like one. Her back was straight and her gait stiff, so stiff in fact that her skirts did not sway. And she certainly did not dress like a whore. The red dress she wore would not seem out of place on a respectable Roman matron. It covered her from neck to toe. A whore always exposed her bosom and ankles—no matter how cold—for it was good for business. Whatever curves the girl had—if any—were hidden by the heavy fabric. Her dark hair was pulled back into a tight, forbidding braid.

She did not look like a whore. She looked like the most modest of maidens.

And yet, three nights ago she had bedded Gawain for coin.

Just as she was about to disappear behind the archway and he was about to resume his walk home, his curiosity sated, the girl turned her head toward the street corner—the same corner where Tristan lurked unseen in the shadows. He started, momentarily surprised. She could not possibly have spotted him, yet her eyes seemed to skewer him in the dark. Then, in the space of a heartbeat, she was gone from view.

And he found himself walking toward the tavern.